


Power Play

by Shamelessquestions (KagekitsuneXXX)



Series: Domestic Bliss [4]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-15
Updated: 2014-03-15
Packaged: 2018-01-15 18:46:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1315360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KagekitsuneXXX/pseuds/Shamelessquestions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It came this close to being over.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Power Play

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and thoughts are welcome. :)

Needs Assessment—it was a concept that had governed Ian’s life since childhood. It was one of the first things Fiona had taught them as kids; figure out what you need as opposed to what you want, because there was no way they would survive for long confusing the two. Keeping the gas on was a need, money for a new baseball uniform was a want; groceries were a need, a movie with your friends was yet another want that had to be delayed.

It didn’t stop at childhood. Ian was constantly shifting through his desires and categorizing wants and needs so he could keep afloat. He was able to do it with school and Kash; he had been able to rise through the ranks in ROTC. Ian could readily identify a want from a need and prioritize appropriately in almost every aspect of his life.

Except one…

Ian’s thoughts raced as he watched Mickey take a slow hit off their blunt. His thoughts were always racing lately, getting nearly impossible to latch on to just one. Right now, they all swirled around Mickey, and Ian watched the other boy’s face as the blue eyes glazed and grew heavy-lidded.

There was no Needs Assessment when it came to Mickey. It was all need, all the time. It had been that way from the very beginning. It had begun with the need to get Kash’s gun from Mickey, until something had clicked behind two sets of eyes and that need immediately transformed. It had turned into the need to be in him, around him, with him all the time, and that need never abated, just intensified. Then Terry had walked in on them and it had all turned to shit in an instant.

“We should run,” Ian said agitatedly, chewing on his fingernails as the plan spun dizzyingly in his mind. Mickey barely reacted—he was exhausted and the weed Ian gave him had to be the strongest he had ever had. He was staying awake solely on fumes. On an impulse, Ian had splurged on a cheap motel room for the day and had dragged Mickey there after convincing him to blow off the Alibi for the day. Ian had been on him from the minute the door closed, and they had barely come up for air since. Eventually, Mickey had to put a stop to it, when Ian’s thrusts became all pain and no pleasure and his own dick became so sensitive, he could barely stand the movement of air over it.

“Man, what is in this shit?” Mickey sighed and offered Ian the blunt, only for the redhead to refuse. Ian needed to be on top of his game right now and the last thing he wanted was for the weed to dampen everything.

“We should run,” Ian repeated firmly, the urgency clawing up his back, sinking into his brain, “just leave the state and dump all this shit. Maybe New York or California..?”

“New York,” Mickey drawled, time slowing down and stretching out before him. “Always wanted to go there; can you imagine that shit? A Milkovich in the big city…” That struck Mickey as ridiculously funny for some reason and he giggled goofily.

“So we’ll do it? We’ll run? When?” Ian’s words came out in quick, staccato bursts. He reached over to shake his boyfriend when the silence went on for too long, but Mickey was already asleep. Ian left him alone and rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling as his mind continued to race ahead of him. He needed something to happen, and he needed something to happen soon.

* * *

It was Lip who inadvertently set the next series of events in motion. Mickey was supervising the Alibi and Ian was fighting hard against the urge to go down there and get him. Lip had come in, taken a seat and started watching Ian intently, enough to make his younger brother antsy.

“What?” Ian barked, scribbling out plans of action for his and Mickey’s move to New York. It was all brilliant, and Ian couldn’t understand why he’d never thought of any of this before, couldn’t understand why his brain didn’t always work like this. He felt like he could do anything, be anything, pull off the impossible. His energy levels had never been higher and right now all he needed to do was keep focused and keep Mickey on board.

Lip seemed to be wrestling with what to say and opened his mouth a few times to ask the questions that had been building since Ian blew back into the house. He started and hesitated, and when Ian huffed impatiently at him, looking as if he’d storm away with the least bit of provocation, Lip had balked and changed tactics entirely.

“So, you and Mickey are back together huh?” Lip watched as Ian’s eyes narrowed in suspicion and squared his shoulders, obviously preparing for some kind of confrontation over this. “I’m just asking. I mean, what are you guys anyway? You exclusive now, is he gonna take the ring off Svetlana and put it on you or some shit?”

And with that, Ian had fallen down the rabbit hole. Something in him latched on to the idea of exclusivity and just would not let it go. It was a whole new thing to obsess about. Mickey wanted him, he knew that much, maybe even loved him. Ian had been steadily pushing the boundaries since he’d come back, wanting to know just how far Mickey would go for him, just what he’d do to keep him. He had wanted to punish him at first, for not giving in to the truth earlier, for leaving Ian no choice but to run off before he completely fell apart. The punishment part of the plan had deteriorated quickly, because this was Mickey and Ian had forgotten the kind of power his boyfriend wielded over him simply by existing.  

It had annoyed him a bit, how quickly he gave up trying to get a little compensation for his pain and suffering. No one should have that kind of power over another person, and Ian was irritated with himself about how weak he was when it came to Mickey Milkovich. Mickey turned him into little more than an exposed beating heart, and maybe leaving was the smartest thing Ian had ever done. But then Mickey had come looking for him, rushed in and did that white knight shit that was usually only on TV. The same white knight shit that a poor, neglected gay boy from the Southside could only dream about but would never expect to happen.

At least this time, Ian realized that maybe he had a bit of power too. The blowjob ultimatum had proved that, and Ian was determined to wield and use that power fully to his advantage. So maybe the punishment part of his initial plan hadn’t completely evaporated

Exclusivity became a new need. He had fallen back in with Mickey without even defining what they were supposed to be now. He wasn’t about to make the same mistake he made last time, when the only rules were Mickey’s and he just had to go along with whatever. Mickey Milkovich belonged to him now, and he belonged to Mickey Milkovich. No Svetlana, no kid, no fucking around with anyone else any more. Mickey would have to agree…or else.

* * *

“What are we exactly?”

Mickey sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. The pulsing and flashing of the lights in the White Swallow overwhelmed him sometimes. There was too much happening all at once. The pounding music that made his whole body vibrate, the crush of gyrating bodies, the fast talking, tweaked out patrons, it was all too much for Mickey to keep an eye on and keep under control. He never stopped moving, never stopped looking around when he was in that place, as if he expected the bogeyman, maybe in the form of Terry Milkovich, to just stretch out a hand from some random bit of darkness and drag him back and beat him bloody.

Usually, when Ian descended from the stage to be with him, the club turned into a safe place. Rather, Ian was Mickey’s safe place, but the club had its merits. He knew he didn’t have to worry about being judged here or about getting bashed for making out with his boyfriend, but where the White Swallow accepted his sexuality, it completely clashed with his personality. This place wasn’t for him, it was for Ian. Ian, in his ridiculous shorts, body glitter and insane eyeliner, fit the scene like a glove. But if Ian was here, then Mickey would be there—it would be their safe place until they finally found somewhere that suited them both.

Right now though, Mickey felt anything but safe and comfortable. The frenetic energy of the club was getting to him and the frenetic energy rolling off his boyfriend was getting to him too. He wondered if Ian was on something, but his eyes hadn’t left Ian all night and he couldn’t figure how the redhead would have gotten his hands on anything. Now, for some reason, Ian decided that this was the perfect time to talk about the status of their relationship. Here, in the middle of a stifling gay club, people screaming and flailing around them.

“Shit Gallagher, do we have to talk about this now?” Mickey was having problems fighting air down into his lungs. Everyone and everything was too close at the moment and Ian was in his space, towering over him, bearing down on him, practically naked and primal and terrifying.

“Yes, now! We never said how we’re doing it this time, Mickey,” Ian was practically vibrating. “I’ll agree to it if you do—no fucking around with anyone else.”

Mickey snorted, his head swivelling as he tried to take in all of their surroundings in one go. “Do whatever the fuck you want, man. I’m not telling you how to live your life.”

Ian’s mouth tightened, his lips becoming a hard line and he pressed Mickey further. “It’s how relationships go, Mick. We leave everyone else out of it…I give myself to you, you give yourself to me.”

Mickey rolled his eyes, “yeah, because that’s a fair exchange.”

He said it a bit softly, almost inaudibly due to the noise of the club, but Ian was close enough to hear it and flinched at the implications. Suddenly, he was acutely aware of his own nakedness and makeup, the quick flashes of discomfort and disgust that ghosted across Mickey’s features when the man scanned the room for the millionth time.

“Fine, whatever,” Ian muttered before turning tail and stalking back to the stage before hurt and rage could take too strong a hold on him. He ignored Mickey calling after him and resumed dancing, feeling eyes raking over his body from every inch of the club. It was enough to get high on. He might be filth now; he might be lower than dirt, but fuck Mickey Milkovich if the bastard really thought he was better than him.

* * *

Ian felt silly later about getting so angry at Mickey’s presumed dig at him. What he should have done, and what he was going to do now, was to get proactive. Mickey needed nudging; he always did when it came to the emotional stuff. If he was going to get Mickey to go exclusive, never mind running away with him, he was going to have to give his boyfriend a sense of urgency.

He scanned the bar slowly, looking for the most appropriate bait. It couldn’t be an old dude. Mickey usually just rolled his eyes and teased him about his geriatric tendencies. Mickey would get pissed off if he fucked some old guy, yes, but maybe not enough to give into Ian’s newest demand. No, the guy had to be young…hot, a guy who wasn’t obviously desperate or on his last legs. Ian needed someone impossible to ignore.

His eyes came to rest on a surfer-type who was grinning at him. Obviously, he was just some guy passing through the town, because that hair and body clearly belonged on a beach somewhere. Ian eyed him for a bit before smiling back. Whatever, he would do.

* * *

Surfer-boy was a screamer, one of those super chatty, orally-fixated types that never failed to bug the shit out of Ian. Ian rolled his eyes and continued thrusting away, trying to drown out the noise of this moron he was banging. He had sent Mickey the text to meet him at the motel nearly a half-hour ago. Where the fuck was he?

As if on cue, the room door crashed open, startling surfer-boy enough for him to shut the fuck up for once. Mickey stood in the doorway, frozen, while Ian pulled out and away from his bait, playing the part of being “caught” as best he could. Mickey still wasn’t moving, a large bottle in a paper bag clutched in his hand—the Southside version of candy and roses.

Surfer was completely confused. He looked from the man standing stock still in the doorway to the redhead behind him on the bed, yanking on his boxers. “Um, what’s going on here?” His voice seemed to finally wake up Mickey.

“Get out,” Mickey’s voice was deceptively soft, and both Ian and his bait were thrown in confusion by it and no one really moved.

Ian blinked rapidly, not liking the mood hanging in the room. It didn’t feel the way it was supposed to at all. Mickey just looked stricken and still and Ian felt his mind stall before setting about racing beyond his reach again. “Mickey, we were just-”

“Get out,” Mickey repeated softly again, finally beginning to advance slowly on the bewildered surfer. The beach blond was looking back and forth between them, trying to make sense of a no-strings hook-up gone awry. Both these dudes looked crazy to him, and when Mickey said to get out the second time, he decided to obey. He didn’t move fast enough though. “I said get the fuck out!”

The sight and sound of the bottle smashing was enough to send Ian into a panic. The surfer ducked in time, lucky enough to dodge the bottle aimed at his head. There was no dodging Mickey, though, who came down on him like the hammer of God. Ian scrambled off the bed as Mickey sent the stranger sprawling into shards of broken glass scattered in a pool of vodka. Mickey’s foot was turning a pretty face into an ugly mess and Ian tackled him to get him off his victim. Surfer wasted no time staggering out, cut and bloodied seemingly everywhere.

Ian barely clung onto a struggling Mickey until he was sure the guy had gone a safe distance. Finally, after getting bruised for his efforts, he let Mickey go, and the man shot to his feet. Ian remained on the floor, looking up uncertainly at a heavily panting Mickey until a dangerous stillness descended over the room.

“Mick, the cops might come soon,” Ian’s voice was shaky; something had gone wrong with his plan and he could feel it. Mickey’s hands were balled tightly into fists, but there were no hits coming. To Ian’s horror, the blue eyes were starting to glisten. “Mick, it wasn’t-”

“You texted me, told me to come here now,” Mickey’s voice was hoarse and breaking, even as he tried to keep it under control, “you told me to come so I could see that? You having a little fun with me, Ian?”

Ian gaped, eyes going wide as the earth continued to shift and crack into pieces. “I wasn’t…I didn’t…” He wanted to get to his feet and say something that was acceptable, that made sense in some way. He couldn’t though, couldn’t move, his body which had been so full of energy before had become oddly leaden. He couldn’t muster the energy, not even when Mickey finally shook his head, stepped over his feet and went out the door, closing it firmly behind him.

“Please don’t leave,” Ian finally whispered, but Mickey was already halfway across town.

* * *

It was a bitch and a half not to cry, and there was just no stopping it sometimes once it started. Mickey was parked in the middle of god-knows-where, angrily rubbing the heels of his palms into his eyes to force the sting back. No dice, though, his body was a fucking traitor. Next best thing was to try not to sob. That, maybe, he could manage.

Everything was fucked, always had been. He didn’t know how he had fooled himself into thinking that he could have something that didn’t have shit all over it. He had just made one dumb move after another until he had succeeded in fucking himself over royally. No one should have this kind of power over another person, no one. The worst part of it was that he had volunteered it, handed everything over on a silver fucking platter. He had happily, gleefully, pointed out where all his buttons were, where all the chinks in his armour lay, just given over the blueprints to his stupid soul and was now sitting here, still somehow surprised that Ian Gallagher had gotten in and thoroughly fucked him up from the inside.

He sniffled, wiped his eyes fruitlessly again, and checked his surroundings. He shouldn’t be this upset about it. Shouldn’t be upset at all really. Ian was making a point, as he always did. _“See? This is what happens when we aren’t exclusive.”_ Ian had been making a lot of points since he came back and maybe the redhead had only been trying to drag him out of his shell, but it had felt more like he was pulling Mickey out of his skin instead.

He took a look in his rear-view mirror and cringed at the pathetic sight he made. It was the epitome of heartbroken and pitiful and something finally broke enough to get him laughing at the ludicrousness of the whole thing. His self-preservation kicked in at last. Fuck all this, he already had Terry wailing on his outside, he didn’t need Ian Gallagher ripping up his insides. Mickey wiped his eyes and turned over the engine. Fuck this, fuck everything, Mickey Milkovich was nobody’s bitch.

* * *

Two weeks—Ian hadn’t seen or heard even a hint of Mickey Milkovich for two solid weeks. He felt at sea, and all his good ideas had dried up. No matter what he did, he couldn’t get his mind going again the way it had been. It was as if the coin had finally flipped over and everything was shit again. He didn’t have the energy to do anything except to call Mickey’s phone, leave his breathing when the voicemail came on, and then roll over to sleep for a bit.

His siblings hovered fretfully at the door once in a while, but he didn’t have it in him to deal with them. They were exhausting, their worries were exhausting and he couldn’t handle all the intensity and feelings they were throwing at him. He needed Mickey and he was gone, he needed inspiration and that was all dried up. He needed a way out of the yawning abyss.

It had taken all his energy to pull on clothes and drag himself over to the Milkovich house. He waited after knocking, shoulders slumping tiredly as he waited someone to answer. He had no idea who he really wanted to answer the door. Did he want the violence of a Terry or Svetlana Milkovich, the support of a Mandy or the spurning ambivalence of, say, Iggy? In the end, though, it was Mandy who answered the door. She took one look at his face and yanked him inside, and then, he simply broke apart.

* * *

“Hey! Fucker!”

Mickey could already tell this was going to be a fun conversation. His sister had tracked him down to his abandoned building. Whenever someone found him there, interrupting his attempts to get blackout drunk, the good times were bound to just roll in.

“You just left him?”

“By ‘him’ I’m guessing you mean..?”

“Ian, you fuckface!” Mandy came to a stop before Mickey, who sat on the floor squinting up at her. She was clearly contemplating stomping his nuts.

“Stay out of it, Mandy,” Mickey responded tiredly and moved to take another drink, “this has fuck-all to do with you.”

She yanked the bottle from his grasp and sent it sailing across to the other end of the room. Mickey couldn’t even bother to get mad about it.

“You left him, he’s completely fallen apart and-“

“And how the fuck is that my problem?” Mickey said vehemently, cutting off a surprised Mandy, “you said go get him, I went and got him. The two of you wanted me to play it his way; I tried to play it his way. I’ve been doing everything but wiping his ass since he came back and you know what that got me? Fucked, is what it got me…and not in a good way.”

“I know what happened,” Mandy started hesitantly, “you know Ian’s not like that usually.”

“Yeah sure, like him fucking everything with a pulse is suddenly uncharted waters,” Mickey got to his feet and tried walking off, “I’m done being jerked around. He can go play his mind-games with some other sucker.”

Mandy watched her brother stomp off and bounced agitatedly as she struggled with whether or not to reveal the secret. She finally flung her hands up in exasperation and ran after him. “He’s sick, Mickey!”

This was more than enough to give him pause, and he turned around to eye her dubiously, “sick? How?”

“That thing his mom has—they’re bipolar—it’s why he’s acting so weird, it’s fucks him in the head,” Mandy panted a bit with the force of her explanation. Mickey looked at her blankly.

“You sure?”

“Yeah, no, I mean, we kind of figured it out at one point, when he was coming down. He hasn’t gone to a doctor yet,” Mandy responded, flustered, “I don’t think he really wants to know, but he knows something’s off. You know something’s off too. You know him better than anybody.”

Mickey rubbed his hands over his face as the headache began to push at his temples.

“I got some lithium tabs off Iggy and gave them to him, but I don’t think he took them for very long. We have to help him, Mickey. I don’t want to lose my friend.”

* * *

Ian woke up in his bedroom to find Mickey standing over him. They stared at each other for a bit before Mickey dumped some clothes on top of him. “Get dressed, Gallagher, we got places to be.”

It was a crumbled brownstone downtown, “New Haven” social services looked anything but new, or safe, but Ian followed Mickey up the steps and down the corridor towards a door marked “Dr. Anne Lester.” Mickey paused before knocking.

“I met her when I was a kid, after Terry went off on us one time and they said we were all getting a little fucked up,” Mickey worried his lower lip and nodded to Ian, “just talk to her for a little bit, she can help.”

He knocked and the door quickly opened to reveal Mary Poppins; at least that’s what she looked like to Ian, only with a slouchy sweater, black jeans and untidy bun. Her grin was open and welcoming, and the hug she gave Mickey was surprisingly warm and affectionate.

“You must be Ian,” Anne smiled softly at him, “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”

Ian nodded, but sent anxious glances over at Mickey, who did his best to convey confidence and reassurance. “It’s okay, Ian, I’ll be out here.”

Mickey doubted half-an-hour had passed before Anne was sticking her head out, looking for him. “You want to come in and sit with us? Hear what’s going on?”

Mickey stood nervously, rubbing his thumb across his chin as he regarded the psychiatrist. “What about privacy and shit?”

“He wants you in here, Mickey. Actually, I think he needs you to be in here,” Anne looked at him for a moment, “are you fine with that?” Mickey nodded and soon stepped past her into the office.

Ian didn’t look at him, didn’t look at either of them, in fact. He was looking off to the side at a bunch of toys, his lips pursed and his chin lifted, the way they always were when he was mad or disappointed. Mickey looked him over as he slid into the seat next to him and Anne took her seat behind the stacked table. She spoke gently and clearly, bringing Mickey up to speed.

“So, it became pretty apparent shortly after we began that Ian is indeed suffering from Bipolar Disorder, though I think Ian and I should talk a little more before we make any definite diagnoses. He has also explained to me that there is a history of this in his family.”

She paused as Ian gave a short humourless laugh, still refusing to look at either of them. “Fucking Monica,” he muttered beneath his breath. Anne waited until he settled before continuing.

“What I need you both to understand is that there is no fault in this,” Anne looked from one teen to another, “Ian, it’s not your fault that this is happening to you. It’s not your mother’s fault it happened to her either. Mental illness isn’t fair, it will go after anyone. The trick is to not let it beat you, to keep happy and functioning even though this unfair thing is happening to you. That’s what we’ll work towards, okay? It’ll be a process, won’t happen overnight.”

Ian didn’t respond yet, just sniffled, but he shifted his body towards them, opting to stare at the floor between his feet.

“The thing I feel to mention now is that during someone’s manic or hypomanic episodes, they may engage in some risky, possibly hurtful behaviour…”

Mickey straightened a bit, and didn’t miss when Ian’s eyes flicked over briefly to him before looking away. Clearly, they had found time to discuss Ian’s more recent escapades. Mickey was having none of this right now.

“Yeah, I get that,” Mickey said brusquely, cutting off Anne’s proxy-apology, “so what do we do now?”

Anne knew better than to push anything with Mickey now, and backed off that tangent immediately. “Ian showed me some of the tabs Mandy got him. Bless her heart, but tell her to come to me next time. Hopefully, Ian and I will be having regular talks from now on?” Anne suggested to the redhead and he shrugged in response. “As for the meds, there are quite a few on the market and it’s a bit of an art form prescribing them. Everyone responds differently. It can take a few tries to find a drug and a dosage an individual is comfortable with.”

“Gotchya, what should I get?”

Anne’s gaze flicked over to Ian uncertainly and Mickey waved a dismissive hand. “It’s fine, he’s real Southside and he’s got no insurance, he knows the deal.”

Ian finally perked up and began watching them keenly, drawn to this strange turn of conversation. Ann whipped out a notepad and started writing down a bunch of medications. “Are you going to knock over some North Side pharmacies, because separate and apart from Ian’s meds, I have a whole shopping list of shit I need from up there.”

“Yeah, give it to me, and we got the routes and schedules for a couple supply trucks. I’ll coordinate with my brothers and my cousins. Do a few organized hits, then lay low for a while, so make sure this shit lasts.”

Ian’s jaw slackened. Before he could even think of anything to say, Anne was speaking to him again. “So we’ll be having chats from now on, right? Mickey will get your meds to me and I’ll dispense them to you so we can monitor their effectiveness and manage any possible side effects. Is this arrangement acceptable to you?”

Ian nodded dumbly, and Mickey quickly added his two cents. “And you’ll stay on your meds, right? I’m not risking prison for the rest of my life just so you can flake on my ass.”

“Mickey!” Anne chastised, but quieted when Ian nodded again with a lot more vigour.

Mickey soon left them alone again so that Anne and Ian could schedule therapy and she could give him his first proper set batch of prescription meds. Before long, they were on their way back to the Southside.

“You don’t need to do this, Mickey,” Ian said softly as they sped towards home on the El.

“Don’t need to, but I want to, and I’m going to,” Mickey said simply, “just stay on the damned meds and take care of yourself, Firecrotch.”

They went on in silence, Ian shaking his backpack gently, listening to the pills rattle inside. “We’re over, aren’t we?”

Mickey took a moment before answering, “Yeah…”

Ian gave a pained, broken laugh and simply nodded. “Yeah…” Who would want to deal with this broken mess?

Mickey sighed and felt his heart break all over again. “I’m doing you a favour, Gallagher, you don’t find your true love or whatever when you’re seventeen.”

Eighteen, however, seemed to be a whole other story.

* * *

“Are you kidding me, right now? You’re not back together?”

“Jesus Christ, Mandy, give it a rest for five fucking minutes.” Mickey just wanted to eat his Lucky Charms in peace before having to head to the Alibi to deal with perverts and prostitutes; but no, the powers that be could not grant him even that.

“Is it because of the bipolar thing? Is that why you didn’t take him back?”

Mickey flipped her off, “no, and fuck you for thinking that.”

“So why then?!” Mandy screamed, at her limit with these idiots.

“He fucks other dudes when I don’t do what he wants, okay!” Mickey snapped, “he is manipulative and passive aggressive and he burns my shit to the ground when I don’t let him have his way.”

Mandy blinked in shock before stammering out, “he was manic though.”

“No, no, that’s not the bipolar shit, that’s just him,” Mickey snorted. “He’s been like this way before this new shit started and he knows, he fucking knows the best motherfucking ways to hurt me and maximise it. Fuck if I’m going to spend the rest of my life handing someone a knife just so he can jam it in and twist it whenever he wants.”

Mandy’s head fell back in exasperation, “love is pain, douchebag.”

“Oh fuck you, white trash Oprah.”

Mandy then flipped him off in turn. “Okay, you’re right, Ian can be all those things, but you know what, you’re not exactly the picture of emotional health here. You’re flat-out aggressive, you withhold affection as a defence,  you trivialize people and their emotions in an attempt to lessen their impact on you and you run away when you realize you can’t completely control an emotionally-charged situation!”

Mickey stared at her dumbfounded.

“Yeah, I have Anne’s number too, fucker!” Mandy huffed defiantly. “Look, love hurts, loving someone gives them the power to hurt you. People are fucked up and horrible. These are all true, but you deal with the shit to get to the good stuff, it’s just what people do! Jesus, Mickey, has anyone ever made you feel the things that Ian makes you feel? Make him understand what he does to you when he fucks up. Get him to stop. There, crisis solved.”

“We’d never last…”

“So maybe you won’t make it to your diamond anniversary, you can cry then. But ending it now because it might end later is just stupid. Find your balls, dude.”

Mickey scratched his nose thoughtfully, “maybe I think he deserves to be with someone who doesn’t have to knock over a pharmacy to get him the meds he needs.”

“Or maybe he deserves someone who’s willing to knock over a fucking pharmacy to get him the meds he needs.” Mandy put her hands on her hips and shut it down. “Look, I could do this all day, every day, assface. Wade through the shit and get to the happy. Now sack up and go talk to him.” Mandy turned and stalked out of their kitchen. “Christ on a cracker with you two, I swear to God.”

* * *

It was the second time in Mickey’s life that someone had the balls to wake him up with a tire iron. Luckily, it was the same perpetrator as the last time. At least Mickey knew he could take him.

“Let me guess, Mandy made you come here?” _The traitorous bitch_ , Mickey thought to himself when Ian nodded. He sat up in his bed and rubbed his eyes tiredly.

“Where’s Svetlana and her claw hammer?”

“Whores’ convention, fuck if I know,” Mickey shrugged, “Mandy knows, since she’s the one watching the kid. Go ask her if you’re so interested.”

Ian pulled up a chair before Mickey’s bed and sat down. They stared at each other in silence.

“I don’t want to break up,” Ian started off.

“I don’t want another superman remake,” Mickey replied, “but what can you do?”

“I’m sorry, Mick, about everything,” Ian said sincerely, “I really am. Give me a chance to fix it.”

“We’ll just keep fucking it up.”

“Then we’ll keep fixing it…”

Mickey laughed, “Why? Why would anyone keep doing this?”

“I’m in love with you,” Ian’s soft response wiped Mickey’s sardonic smile right off, “I know we’re just teenagers, but I know you’re it for me, Mickey. I just want a chance to make this work with you.”

Mickey went quiet and plucked nervously at the knee of his sweatpants.

“I’ll suck your dick whenever you want,” Ian offered, but the attempt at levity fell flat when Mickey flinched at that.

“Look, Lana’s probably going to be home soon. You should get going; she really does take that fucking hammer everywhere.”

* * *

It was about a week later when Ian startled awake in his bedroom. Lip, Carl and Liam were passed out in their respective beds and Mickey Milkovich was standing over him. Ian opened his mouth to speak but Mickey clapped a hand over his mouth and indicated that he follow him. They snuck quietly into Frank’s bedroom and closed the door behind them.

“You guys have a whole fucking bedroom free and you’re sleeping like sardines in there.” Mickey muttered as he shrugged out of his coat and tossed it to the floor.

“It’s Frank’s,” Ian shrugged, as if that would explain everything, and in a way, it did.

“Yeah, well, it’s ours tonight.” Mickey surveyed the room while Ian’s gaze laser-focused on him.

“Ours?”

“Yeah,” Mickey replied, finally looking over at him. “You don’t want to get on me?”

It was never about want with Mickey Milkovich as far as Ian was concerned; it was always about need—the need to be in him, around him, with him all the time. Ian didn’t hesitate to close the distance between and pull Mickey to him. They tried to start slowly at first, a soft, deep searching kiss to ease them back into it. But it had been too long and the restraint snapped quickly. The kiss turned hungry and biting, Ian finally breaking it to push Mickey to sit on the bed while he sank to his knees.

He kept his eyes on Mickey’s face while he deftly undid his jeans. Mickey shuddered as Ian went to work on him, lifting his hips so the redhead could finish dragging off his pants and spread him out more. He quickly yanked off his shirt and groaned as Ian hummed around his cock and dug his fingers so hard into the redhead’s shoulders that the jagged half-moon impressions were still there when Mickey moved to grip Ian’s hair instead.

“Ian,” Mickey warned before he came with a shaky moan into Ian’s mouth. Ian swallowed, licked him clean, before pushing him back further onto the bed until Mickey lay open before him.

“Turn over for a sec,” Ian whispered hoarsely and Mickey quickly obeyed. He kissed and licked the back of Mickey’s knees, working his way up until he could swipe his tongue across the tight entrance and felt Mickey push back against him. The brunet groaned and grabbed a pillow to bury his face in while Ian tongued him. He hissed when the first finger delved in, accompanying the tongue.

When Ian was done stretching him, he got Mickey to flip over again. His breath hitched a little, looking down at Mickey, who was flushed and breathing hard. The brunet bit his lip hard at the familiar, slow burn of Ian moving into him. Ian paused when he was fully in, stopping to enjoy the feel of the tight heat, convulsing around him. Mickey smacked his heel against Ian’s backside, “move fucker.” Ian laughed and leaned forward, burying his face in Mickey’s neck and breathing in as he started moving.

They knew how to play the quiet game, and they kept the noise down, even as Ian picked up speed. They fucked frantically, the room warming and filling with the scent of sweat and sex. Ian’s teeth clamped down hard on Mickey’s shoulder as he slammed into him, his hands digging into the pale hips as Mickey arched off the bed and ground against him desperately.

They collapsed after their mutual explosion and lay panting through the recovery. Ian watched Mickey come down off the high of their lovemaking, relieved. He had been apprehensive about the meds and sex. Mickey looked at him and worried his bottom lip for a bit.

“Still wanna run or is that out of your system now?”

Ian’s eyes went wide, “you’d do it?”

Mickey half-smile was sweet and nervous, “I dunno man, we can think about it at least. Shit, we’d need a shitload of money to start, and to find a place…and jobs. I don’t even know. If we’re going anywhere, it’s New York though. No way I’m hauling ass to Cali-fucking-fornia.”

Ian’s face was threatening to split in two, he was smiling so widely. “Whatever you want, Mick. Whatever you want.”


End file.
